I thought I saw a Spanish sunrise once
A slumbering dog
of a morning watches
the sky empty a coat
of rain. Wary of siesta
it retreats behind
curtains of a mountain;
eager for the blackboard
of night, the sharpening
of dreams.
HALF-PAST
I might have, but I didn't, and now I zoom
by the cows on the hill, the former cement factory,
the abandoned quarry, with stains as from babies
being smashed against the wall. It's half-past,
and the sky's turned the color of the charred eyes
of someone not permitted shoe laces or a belt.
I'm beginning to think that maybe I'm lost.
All around hover tiny buds of darkness.
Someday I want to live on a quiet, tree-
lines street in the only house with a red door.
"The Memory Pill"
About a week after I had been taking the pill, there I was, in the kitchen of the house on Moorstone Square, five years old.
My father was about to whip me with the belt for leaving my bicycle in the driveway, and I said, "But Daddy, Mom asked me to move the water sprinkler, and I put my bike down, and before I could move my bike, the air conditioner repairman backed over it. He didn't even stop."
I remember now that air conditioner wasn't broken.